


Violent Ends

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Westworld (TV)
Genre: F/M, I actually don't know what I was thinking with the pairings, Literally no one did, Rare Pairings, Westworld AU, Westworld AU that no one asked for, western robot thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Ned had told Margaery that nothing was wrong. Well, this was pretty fucking wrong, and if word got out that the park had defective hosts, hosts that were going off script...That would be bad for all of them.AKA the Westworld AU no one asked for but I'm sure you'll all enjoy





	

**Author's Note:**

> SO! For those of you who haven't seen Westworld, it's about an amusement park full of robots, or "hosts", that don't know they're robots, but are slowly developing consciousness and choosing to break free from the vicious cycle their human overlords have placed them in. Westworld is a quality show, guys, and I highly recommend.
> 
> Sansa=Dolores  
> Daenerys=Maeve  
> Jon=Hector  
> Arya=Armistice  
> Ned=Bernard  
> Willas=Teddy  
> Margaery=Teresa/Elsie hybrid  
> Jon Arryn=Mr. Ford  
> ...and more!
> 
> So the characters are loosely based on their Westworld characters, and I will be making some departures from the story to fit my image. Also, instead of just two of the hosts (Maeve and Dolores's characters) becoming sentient, several hosts are gaining consciousness around the same time (for plot reasons!) ENJOY!

The air in _The Khaleesi_ is smoky and warm, filled with the perfume that Daenerys makes all her girls wear. The piano tinkles away in the corner, guests smoke and Daenerys’s girls laugh, flirt, twirl their hair. Somewhere upstairs, Daenerys’s purse gets heavier as business is concluded. All in a day’s work.

Daenerys takes a puff of her cigar and leans across the bar. From behind it, she can see Sandor polishing a glass. Across the room, she can hear Missandei say “You’re new. Not much of a rind on you.”

“You ain’t drinkin’, mister,” Daenerys observes, putting enough sweetness into her voice to sound coy. The mister in question’s got a black cowboy hat on, drooping over his eyes, and a strange look in his eye. Daenerys’s seen that look one too many times, the look of a man with danger on his mind.

“Took a drink an hour ago, Madam,” the man in black says. “Waiting it off before I take another.”

Daenerys pouts slightly, leans forward. “I can help you wait,” she whispers, once she’s close enough to place a hand on his chest. The man looks down at her hand and laughs. Surprisingly, Daenerys feels stung. No one laughs at her.

“I’m waiting for someone,” the man says, and when his eyes finally meet hers, Daenerys nearly recoils. It ain’t just the sickly green color that puts her on edge. It’s the cruel tilt of his mouth, the cold calculation she can see writ on his face plain as the sun. Daenerys can see what goes on in his mind’s eye, the thoughts swirlin’, the pain she knows he wants to inflict on her. But Daenerys is a professional, and she steps away, giving him space.

“You sure, mister?” Daenerys asks, making her eyes go wide and innocent.

He looks her over once again. “Later,” he says, and she can hear the promise in it. Daenerys resolves to busy herself the rest of the night just so this snake doesn’t get to make good on his promise.

“Ah,” he picks up the brim of his hat, tips it down to Daenerys. “I see my friend over there. Keep this seat warm for me, will ya sugar?”

Daenerys gives him a sultry smile. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”

Daenerys has got rules, and one of ‘em is to stay away from the customer’s life outside _The Khaleesi_ , but she finds herself looking out the window, following the man in black’s movements as he approaches a sweet-looking girl with red hair. He’s bending down before she drops her can of milk, and Daenerys gets a sick feel in her stomach, like maybe she’s seen this before.

 

* * *

 

“Cat,” the monster calls her, when he drags her away from Daddy, away from Willas’s cooling body. “My Cat.” Sansa wants to beg him to stop calling her that, to let her back to Willas, back to Daddy, but all that comes out is a sob.

“Please,” she cries, her breath failing her, “Please.” Over and over, until there’s only emptiness inside. When he’s done, he laces up his trousers, and Sansa should get up, take his gun and _shoot_ him, but she can’t move. Her arms and legs are numb, and she’s burning between them. All she can hear is the hitching sobs making their way from her chest, the sniffles.

 _Get up_ , her mind supplies, _get his gun_.

Sansa tries. By God, does she try. But she can’t make herself move towards it, towards _him._

Last thing he does is put on his hat. He looks like a sea of black, and his eyes, the only color in his face, study her lazily.

He picks up his gun.

“I’ve been visiting here for twenty years,” he says mildly, and checks the chamber. The gun clicks in his hand. “You still don’t remember me, do you?”

Sansa can’t answer. She just whispers, again, “Please.”

The man in black sighs, kneels next to Sansa. His hand brushes over her sweaty forehead, almost lovingly, and Sansa tries to pull away. Tries to bite his hand, maybe take a finger before he kills her. “You used to be called Cat,” he tells her, almost matter-of-fact. Still cradling her head, the man puts the gun to her forehead. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he says, starting to smile again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

“You dropped this,” a voice says from behind Sansa, and for some unfathomable reason, Sansa dreads turning around to see who it is speaking.  But she turns and sees beautiful brown eyes, a  dimpled smile and what must be two day’s worth of beard.

“You came back,” Sansa says, smiling so hard she damn near breaks her face.

“Told you I would,” Willas says.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys takes a puff of her cigar and leans across the bar. From behind it, she can see Sandor polishing a glass. Across the room, she can hear Missandei say “You’re new. Not much of a rind on you.”

A man dressed in black is walking towards Daenerys. He looks angry, like he’s stewing over something that just won’t let him go.

He casts a dark look out the window. All Daenerys can see is a sweet-looking girl with red hair on a horse trotting away. He sets himself against the bar and orders a shot of rum, downs it in one go. On the tip of Daenerys’s tongue is her usual response, _Busy night, mister?_ But the words die before they even get out. This one’s trouble, Daenerys can tell, and while she’s got no problem with trouble under normal circumstances, she gets the feeling this ain’t the kind she likes. But as she turns to find another customer outside, the man grabs her wrist hard enough to bruise.

He’s looking at her like he knows her, and his green eyes cut deep. Daenerys sets her face into a pleasant expression, and says, sweet as sugar, “Hey there, mister.” She takes another puff of her cigar with her free hand, blows the smoke into his face. He looks mad at her, and Daenerys does it again. “See something you like?” Daenerys asks, and she knows the answer already. She doesn’t really care to hear it.

 

* * *

 

“We’re gon’ be filthy rich by the time we’re done,” Sandor says,  and Arya nearly shoots him there and then. _Patience,_ she schools herself. Better to use him now, shoot him after she’s got what she wants. On the other side of the fire, Jon Snow, the ringleader of their band of outlaws, eyes Sandor and Theon murderously as well. Arya ‘spects he knows what Theon did to Jon’s own brother, thinks that if she don’t get a chance to kill Theon, it’s gon’ be Jon who pulls the trigger. Their newest addition, a quiet man named Gendry sidles up to Arya.

“Is he always this annoying?” Gendry asks, his tone light.

Arya spits in an affirmation. “Can’t wait to rid myself o’ that bag o’ bones,” she mutters. “Feels like I’ve been puttin’ up with that little bitch forever and a day.”

Gendry makes a small, strangled noise, like a laugh at something he don’t think is that funny, and Arya casts a glance at him. He’d joined up with them in Pariah, back when they were still planning to bust Jon out of the slammer. He knew his way ‘round a gun, Arya’d give him that, and even though he wasn’t too fast, he never got hit by a stray. She eyes him critically in the firelight, and thinks, _He ain’t so bad. Maybe after all this I’ll give him a go in the sack._

She can _feel_ him looking at her tattoo. It’s a wolf nearly as big as her body, twined around her back with the tail running down her thigh and the snarling mouth opening at her jaw. He can’t see most of it, but she’s seen him looking at the visible parts. When the’d busted Jon out, Arya had told him she was saving the last piece of her tattoo, the eyes, for when she finally caught the man who killed her father, and she’d delighted in the shocked, almost scared look in his eyes.

Across the fire, Arya can see Jon’s face, his troubled expression.  Something’s been off about him. Ever since they left the prison, Jon had been looking at them all like he knew something they didn’t.

“What’re you going to do with your money?” Gendry asks, looking uneasy. “Got any plans?”

Arya scowls at him, “I’m hunting down the man who killed my father,” she says. “A dirty bastard by the name of Lannister.”

Gendry’s eyes light up. That’s what Arya hasn’t figured out about him yet. He finds everytthing a bit too amusing, takes delight when she says something vicious. So far, he’s enjoyed arguin’ with her over how small she is, how she treats her horse, her drawl. When Jon had finally broken after listening to two hours of their bickering, he’d demanded to know why Gendry took such a delight in pushin’ Arya’s buttons.

Gendry looked baffled for a moment, and then said, almost abashed, “It makes you more real, I guess. You guys never say what I expect.”

Arya had scoffed at that, but Jon’s eyes narrowed. Even now, across the fire, Jon’s face was carefully blank, turned away from them, but still _watching_.

 

* * *

 

When Daenerys got to _The Khaleesi_ that morning, a sweet-looking girl with red hair was standing in front of her steps, dressed in a prairie dress the color of the sky. She was staring down Main Street with a queer expression on her face, looking both expressionless and distraught, nearly unnatural in her stillness.

“Unless you’re lookin’ for a job, sweetheart, get out o’ the streets,” Daenerys hears herself say. She hadn’t wanted those to be the words out of her mouth, she wanted to comfort this slip of a girl who looked so lost, so consumed, but it was like she could barely control her own voice. “I don’t want the paying customers to think you’re a sample of the goods inside.”

The girl looks at Daenerys slowly, turning with a controlled precision that spoke of fluidity and grace Daenerys rarely saw in people. Her eerie blue eyes met Daenerys’s and suddenly, she was nearly in front of her.

The girl gripped her arm and tightened it. “These violent delights have violent ends,” she said, devoid of warmth, of fear, of feeling. She moved mechanically, Daenerys saw, not gracefully as she’d thought.

And just as soon, the girl was gone, walking slowly down the road, not looking right nor left, sure of her path.

But Daenerys stood there, shaking, in front of _The Khaleesi_ for longer than she would know, nearly sick with fear.

 _These violent delights have violent ends_ , she thought. And suddenly, when she looked around, things were _different_. The women around her were laughing, and down the street two men were dueling, pistols drawn. But there was a body on the street that she hadn’t noticed before, and she’d stepped over it on her way here, hadn’t she? And a woman was pointing a little black box around, something Daenerys had never seen before. The man drinking on the porch of the Sheriff’s was wearing a watch on his wrist, not on his vest, not a watch Daenerys was familiar with.

Everywhere she turned, things were a little…not _wrong_ , exactly. But she was seeing a world she’d never seen before. Daenerys couldn’t recall a time she’d ever been this scared before.

 

* * *

 

Willas liked to watch Sansa paint, so she leads him out to the mountains and set up her easel. Almost shyly, she turns to him. “I knew you’d come back,” she says, her voice clear and pretty as a bell.

“Did you?” Willas asks, grinning crookedly. She smiles and pushes red strands from her forehead, where they’d started to curl.

“’Course I did,” Sansa says, and she makes her way through the tangled grass, lifting her skirts to come near him. “I believe that everyone has a path,” she tells him, putting a hand to his shoulder, steadying herself. “And your path leads you back to me.”

When Willas kisses her, he tastes the apple he’d seen her chewing on back in town. He tastes the bite of mint she’d pulled out from the side of the road on their way here. He tastes his future, a beautiful wife on a ranch, surrounded by children and animals and all the scenery that Sansa could want to paint. He’s never loved anyone this much. He never thought he would, not after what he’s done, what he’s run from.

Sansa pulls away from him and leans her cheek into his shoulder. She’s tall for a woman, so she can fit into Willas quite comfortably.

“Lets run away,” she says, suddenly pleading. “You always say you want to leave this place. What’s stoping us?”

Willas freezes for a moment, and he can’t think of anything to say. For some reason, their conversations never stray into this territory, and he has to compute his response. Why don’t they run away? He imagines it for a moment, him and Sansa setting off in a cart, making their way east, maybe to Chicago or Newport. He’d like to see the sea, like to see Sansa in the water, get out of this desert. Why can’t they? And suddenly he remembers.

“I can’t,” he says. “Sansa, you know why. There are things in my past that I’ve gotta fix, gotta atone for. I can’t leave until that’s done.”

Sansa pulls away and turns so that Willas can’t see her face. “I know,” she says, quietly. “You’re a good man, Willas.”

“We will,” he tells her, and lays a hand on her shoulder. She leans her cheek into the touch. “I promise. Once this is all over.”

“I love you,” Sansa says, almost pleadingly. There’s a desperation in her voice. Willas has never heard it before.

 

* * *

 

Jon has never done this before. He plans on robbing this woman blind tomorrow, but today he’s gone insane.

“You,” he says, to the woman with the silver hair and violet eyes. He’s never seen such looks on another human before. He adds a smile and some of the roughish charm Ygritte says can charm the skirts off a woman, even though it’s hard for him to reach. The woman freezes, waves away the girl she’d been calling over, and turns to Jon, an amused expression on her face.

“You can’t afford me, mister,” she tells him, but he can see it; she’s charmed. Jon has no idea where it comes from, but he steps into her space, runs two fingers from her collarbone down to the skin where her corset starts.

“I think I can,” he whispers into her ear, watches the tip of it turn red. Odd. He didn’t think whores blushed.

He fucks her hard against the bed, almost too hard, but she gives as good as she gets, scratching him, biting his ear, his neck, his lips. When he’s nearly done, she flips him onto his back and goes so hard it’s painfully good, something he _feels_ in more than just his cock, something he feels in his heart. She’s intense, and so focused that Jon can see the surprise on her face when she comes before him, shuddering above him while he keeps his pace. When Jon comes it’s with an explosion behind his eyes and sweat and blood bitter in his mouth from where he’s bitten his tongue. It’s the most human he’s felt in weeks, and for a clear minute afterwards he’s blissfully unaware of the world around him, can only dimly feel himself gasping, feel her collapse against his chest.

“What’s your name?” Jon manages, even though he already knows.

“Daenerys,” she says, still breathing hard. “Yours?”

“Jon,” he says, and hopes she doesn’t connect his face and name to the wanted posters outside the general store. He hopes she doesn’t shop for her own food very often.

“Almost feel bad chargin’ you for that,” Daenerys laughs, and pulls herself off his chest. Jon feels the loss immediately, but lets her go. She stays seated on him, though, and just reaches over for a cigar. Jon pulls out a match from the bedside table and strikes it.

“Much obliged,” she thanks him, after he’s lit her cigar, as though she’s not naked and straddling him. She takes a puff and blows it out. Jon likes the smell, like burnt cloves and tobacco.

“You see lots of people, don’t you?” Jon asks, and he can feel it, the solemn, closed off man he usually is returning to him. He’s probably staring too intently at her, but he doesn’t look away. Sometimes it’s good that he makes people uncomfortable. But she just looks down at him and puffs away.

“Sure,” she says, and rolls her hips against his, “but most people don’t fuck me that well.”

Jon stares at her and laughs, unexpectedly. This entire conversation is so _new_ , it’s an endless source of amusement. Daenerys starts laughing after a beat, and places the cigar between Jon’s lips. He takes a puff.

Despite himself, Jon can already feel the twitches of arousal starting again in his groin, and when Daenerys shoots him a sly look he knows she’s felt it too.

“Some people are different, though,” Jon starts, thinking of Gendry. He feels unsure, even saying it to her, “don’t you think?”

“Don’t you go romancing me, now,” Daenerys says, clearly tickled by the idea of solemn Jon trying to win her over.

“I’m not,” he explains. “Some people are…off, or odd? Don’t you think?”

He wouldn’t be saying this under normal circumstances. But yesterday, when he and Arya and Theon came in to scope out the town, he’d seen Daenerys in the street, staring at the people passing her as if she’d never seen them before. He’s felt the same. Ever since last week when he’d been in that prison and seen the man in the white coat…

Daenerys doesn’t say anything for a long time, just continues smoking and staring him down. Finally, she whispers.

“These violent delights have violent ends.”

 

* * *

 

Margaery finds Ned behind his desk, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His computer is open to the SANSA profile when Margaery enters, but that’s not unusual. Ned modeled Sansa after his own daughter, anyway.

“Sir,” Margaery says, and comes to a stop in front of him. She’s nervous, but she doesn’t let it show. “I think there’s a problem.”

Ned doesn’t look up. “Oh?” He asks noncommittally.

“With the hosts,” Margaery says. Ned looks up immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

Margaery bites her lip, then releases it, chiding herself for looking insecure. She’s been jittery around him lately. “They’re going off-script. Look, here, there’s a completely unscripted conversation going on. And that outlaw we’ve got set for that bi-monthly robbery of _The Khaleesi_? He broke his narrative to fuck the fucking Madam of the whorehouse! The woman he’s robbing!”

“Is that all?” Ned asks, and he’s coming around the desk. Margaery feels a tingling in her fingers when he comes close. Dammit, she is nervous. This could mean disaster.

“That’s all I’ve noticed.”

“Good,” Ned pats her shoulder. “That’s not bad,” he says. “It’s a result of the new update. You know, the reveries that Arryn wrote in?”

Margaery cuts him off, “No, I don’t think—”

“They’re learning,” Ned says reassuringly. “From their past reiterations. They’re making different choices.”

“It’s _off script_!” Margaery exclaims, voice rising. “Joffrey _writes_ the fucking scripts, and once he notices he’s going to have a fucking shit fit and I’m gonna have to deal with it!”

Ned’s hand is warm on her shoulder, and the smile he gives her is strained. “Mr. Arryn assured all of us on the executive team that this might happen. They’re learning from their mistakes. It makes them more lifelike, more believable, than any script Joffrey can come up with.”

Ned hates Joffrey, Margaery remembers. He’d never forgiven him for the way he’d cut up Sansa on his own vacation into the park. Sansa, who reminded him so much of his own dead daughter.

“The reveries are supposed to remember gestures and dialogue,” Margaery argues weakly. “They’re not supposed to motivate action. Two hosts having _sex…_ ”

Ned sighs, and moves away. Margaery briefly mourns the loss. “We programmed them with sexuality,” he says. “we programmed them with sex drives and desires. It’s nothing too out of the ordinary, Margaery. Why don’t you go home, get some rest? I’ll take another look at it and let you know more in the morning.”

“Over breakfast?” Margaery asks, suddenly insecure. She bites her lip, and forces herself not to cross her arms. “Will you stay over by me?” She questions, looking down at her sleeves, fighting to look disinterested with the answer.

Ned is looking at her intently when she raises her face. They’ve only slept together twice, but Margaery _wants_ him to come over. He’s older than her by nearly twenty years, but she’s never been wise about her affairs, and god, she _wants_ this.

“Yes,” he says, and smiles at her. “I’ll be by around eight. Let me just check this out first.” He starts to bring up the outlaw’s profile. “I’m sure that nothing is wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review! I'll be making more chapters if I get positive feedback, so I'd love to hear what you guys think.
> 
> Also, "These violent delights have violent ends" is a phrase that is meant to "wake" hosts up somehow, or get them to realize the nature of their reality. Also, I made Petyr the Man in Black, because if you think of it he's also hung up on a woman he loved long ago, like SOMEONE in the show (who I won't spoil bc it's not nice).


End file.
